


Infallible

by BlametheCupcake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Gen, PTSD, Post TGG, Revenge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlametheCupcake/pseuds/BlametheCupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft pulls another little abduction scenario on John and goes a bit too far. He didn't take into account the possibility that even if John's hand is not a symptom of PTSD, throwing a traumatised ex-soldier into that kind of a situation is going to be a bit triggering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infallible

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my wonderful beta and brit picker misanthropyray who saved the day.

People make mistakes; it is one of the fundamentals of human nature. Mycroft knew that and was generally the one to clean up after people. Even he made mistakes, he would admit it and he could tell you exactly when (March 27, 1997 he said something unflattering about his brother in front of his mother) if you cared to ask him. It wasn't often that he made a mistake and he never second guessed himself but perhaps that was his biggest error of all. The consequences of that error were going to be felt for quite some time though.

He had been having a very unsatisfying day to begin with: foreign dignitaries being difficult, problems with the newest elections, eating a rather unsatisfying lunch of just salad, and finding out Sherlock's newest case involved a Lord with very powerful connections. Of course, he had tried to convince his brother to drop the case but the younger man never knew when to leave well enough alone. So when he’d sent Anthea to pick up the doctor and the man had declined, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The doctor had become used to the impromptu meetings that could no longer be defined as kidnappings and never tried to fight it, despite the fuss he made over them. Hearing he had the gall to refuse the summons was nothing short of insulting. In the interest of fairness, he had given the man another chance and sent Anthea back out with a sterner order for the doctor’s presence. Perhaps this time he would have acquiesced to Mycroft’s request but at that moment Lestrade had shown up and provided the perfect excuse for him to flee. All in all, an unacceptable morning.

Mycroft left it to Anthea to set up the operations and he couldn't have done better himself. Maybe that wasn't exactly true but she did very well considering the time constraints. When she brought the plans to him for approval, he couldn't help but be pleased. It would be just enough to teach the doctor his place.

“Wonderful Anthea, set it up.” She nodded and turned away, already tapping away on her cell phone as she sent instructions and set the plan in motion.

 

John Watson was not having a good day. First off, he had stayed up incredibly late the night before doing research for the latest case, then got dragged out of bed early to go and speak to some Lord’s servants while he was out. Then it started to rain. Soggy and all around miserable he was in no mood when the familiar black car rolled up and the driver wordlessly opened the door for him.

“Not today, thank you.” He said and walked right past the man. Since his back was turned, he didn't see the way that the driver spoke quietly to the woman in the back seat or the way she, in turn, spoke into her phone.

The second time it happened that day, he was outside of his flat waiting for Sherlock who had run off with his keys after examining the army keyring he kept on them. He had yelled something about Lord Anthony and how a scratch mark matched something that no doubt seemed unrelated but John had been too distracted with how Sherlock was digging in his jean pockets to really pay attention. Mrs. Hudson was out shopping so he was locked out of the flat and he was beginning to wonder about this developing trend since his partnership with the elusive consulting detective.

With a sigh, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and felt an oncoming headache. When he looked up, he was only half surprised to see the black car pulling up in front of him. He really didn't want to go and have what ever awkward and tense conversation Mycroft wanted to have but he had already dismissed the man's summons once that day and didn't want to press his luck. Just as he was about to step forward a police car pulled up behind the vehicle and Lestrade stepped out. The inspector eyed the car and the driver who was holding the door open for John with suspicion before turning to the doctor.

“John, Sherlock said you might need a lift.” While the words were said calmly enough there was a tension about the inspector and he no doubt suspected foul play at hand. In an effort to diffuse the situation and prevent a misunderstanding, he decided to go with Lestrade. He nodded to the driver and headed for the police vehicle.

Lestrade, bless him, didn't ask what any of that was about and merely griped about how Sherlock had bullied him into fetching John, 'not that I mind, you understand'. And that was the last he had thought of it.

This was part of the reason John had been so thoroughly caught off guard. Once again Sherlock had ran off after finding some clue that only he would understand the importance of , leaving him without a ride home. Without Sherlock he couldn't afford a cab and he couldn't allow Lestrade to give him another ride, besides the inspector still had work to do at the scene. It was late, dusk had fallen hours ago and the streets were empty as he was a in a suburban street away from any main roads. The screech of tyres caught his attention and he spun around. It happened so quickly and all he could process was black before bodies swarmed out of the vehicle and were on him. The people were wearing black ski masks and just for one horrifying moment his mind went back to another place. That hesitation was all the people needed.

A bag was shoved over his head and he yelled out despite the fact that he knew nobody was around to hear him. Even as he yelled and fought, he found his arms wrestled behind his back and the click of handcuffs cinching painfully tight on his wrist. He managed to land an elbow into a man’s stomach and get a kick into another one’s knee. Surprisingly, there were no returned blows as he was manhandled into a trunk. One second it was pandemonium, a black world that was filled with hands grabbing him and the sounds of scuffling and next there was a loud click and nothing. He could hear car doors shutting but the men up front were professional enough not to talk and give anything away. Other than the sounds of the engine, all he could hear was his own harsh breathing which sounded far too loud in the confined space of the trunk.

 

Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic. John repeated to himself as he curled into a ball and made a effort to control his breathing. His hands steadily twisted and clawed at the cuffs. He knew the damage it was doing to his wrists but couldn't help the instinctual reaction to try and free himself. The steady stream he kept up in his head to calm himself wasn't working and he could feel the panic building. This wasn't like the normal life or death situation he found himself in with Sherlock. While he was glad that the other man wasn't here being kidnapped with him it was extremely inconvenient. The detective could pick locks as well as he could he could pockets. But no, here he was alone, bound, blind, and useless. Trapped.

Afraid.

Panicked.

Throwing his body up and his shoulder into the lid didn't do anything but make his wounded shoulder scream. It hurt but he had to get out of there, he had to. John's heart was thudding almost painfully in his chest and the clinical part of his mind was warning of hyperventilation if he didn't control his breathing. The loud screaming part of his head drowned that part of his brain out completely.

He had been captured by the enemy -no not the enemy just some unknown party- and he had to free himself. Who knew when Sherlock was going to get back to the flat and even then he probably wouldn't notice John's absence until he wanted some tea and, of course, he couldn't be expected to make it himself. Thoughts of Sherlock helped calm him somewhat and for a moment, he thought he would be able to get his panic striken brain under control. The car went over a speed bump fast enough to send John up into the air and thudding against the lid of the trunk. Any control he’d imagined having deserted him.

Once he hit the bottom of the trunk again, he was a flurry of movement. His foot kicked out and he heard the crack of the rear tail light breaking, giving his frantic mind a idea. With a short breath, he braced himself and dislocated his left thumb. It hurt, oh God it hurt, but he had to get out of here and if a little pain accomplished that then so be it. The cuffs were tight though and it wasn't going to be enough and once the pain faded slightly he broke several more of the bones (trapezium, scaphoid, triqutrium, his mind supplies) in the same hand. Even then he wasn't sure it was going to work and he barely managed to stop himself from screaming as he twisted his hand free of the cuff. The other one would just have to stay put. It would do no good if he‘d broken both his hands, making him useless in the fight to come. He had heard horror stories of what they do to prisoners of war and he wasn't going to be taken alive. No no no that wasn't right!

The air in the trunk was stiflingly hot and he half expected to feel the grit of sand underneath his body. His mind was at war with himself and while part of him knew he was in a trunk in London another part was loudly screaming about things he hadn't thought of in months. He was a POW; don't say anything other then name, rank and serial number. He didn't want to die, he refused to die!

With his hands free, John tore the bag from his head and threw it in the far corner of the trunk. It only made him feel a little bit better. The timing couldn't have been better for no sooner had he gotten rid of the bag, the car came to a halt, throwing him backwards against the solid partition. It hurt his crippled hand and his aching shoulder, only partially dulled by the adrenaline flooding his system.

Being of short stature had always been a burden during his life but right then it paid off as he crouched in the trunk ready to spring.

 

There was the sound of the key sliding into the lock and the click of the catch releasing, and that was all John had been waiting for. Instead of waiting for them to open the lid he threw it open himself, at the same time throwing his entire body forward. He drove his shoulder into the stomach of the man who happened to be in front of him and the momentum drove them both to the ground. Unlike the man he had tackled, John was expecting the impact and rolled, using the momentum to get back onto his feet. The men obviously hadn't expected their victim to escape his bonds much less fight back. He used their surprise against them.

He swung his still shackled right fist at the nearest man and it made a thud as it slammed into the man's temple. It sounded like the noise a bullet makes after turning somebody’s skull to mush and the clink of the dangling cuff reverberated like a cartridge being ejected. The last time he had heard it, a young private's brain matter had stained his jacket beyond repair. Suddenly it was so bloody hot and he couldn't catch his breath.

While his brain was at war with itself, one of the mysterious masked men took advantage of his distraction but instead of hitting him, he wrapped his arms around the doctor to restrain him. Maybe if he‘d been thinking straight he would have thought it odd. John flailed uselessly trying to free himself and nearly cried out when his hand collided with a holster on his attacker’s belt. It gave him an idea.  
John kicked backwards hard, leaning forward and down as much as he could with a man holding him from behind. When his assailant’s weight shifted forward with him the doctor grabbed his arm and pulled. Those eight weeks he’d spent in basic training paid off in that moment when he threw the man from his back.

Before anyone else had a chance to jump on him he dropped down, hitting his knee against the middle of the man's back and fumbled with his holster. When his other knee hit the concrete floor, he almost cried out at the sudden pain slicing through his thigh. Panicked, he looked down at the offending limb and fear was followed by confusion; there was no blood or even a tear in his jeans. Then suddenly everyone was rushing at him. No, no he couldn't be taken alive.

He threw himself to his feet, nearly falling back down when his leg threatened to give way underneath him. It held enough for him to stumble backwards while bringing the gun up to face the men closing in on him.

“Stay back.” He rasped as he continued to back up. None of the men spoke, instead they just kept closing in on him. “Stay away from me.”

His back hit a wall and he leaned against it gratefully as he tried to take some of the weight off his painful leg. “Komak! Ma Namifamom!” Why were they coming after an army surgeon? “Komak! I'm warning you, please! Komak!”

They didn't stop. So he started shooting.

 

He didn't follow the bullets’ progress but heard the all too familiar sound of a body dropping. It did have desired effect in stopping the group’s progress, forcing them to assess the new threat he presented now he was armed and dangerous.

His vision kept flickering. One moment he was in a dark warehouse surrounded by armed men in ski masks, the next he was in the stifling heat of Afghanistan staring down insurgents who wore black wraps around the lower half of his face. The similarities were striking and all the more confusing when the two images kept switching.

Doctor! John! John!

He could hear the screaming. It was like his nightmares except he was most defiantly not dreaming.

Watson! John! Doctor!

“Doctor Watson!” His eyes snapped open (when had he closed them?) and searched for the source of such an authoritative tone that demanded obedience. It reminded him of a drill sergeant and if there was one thing he had learned, it was to do as ordered without a second thought. It seemed old habits were coming back with old memories.

Mycroft Holmes strode through the men dressed in black, confident as always though this time his face didn't have that smug smirk John had become so familiar with. The leader of nations didn't seem to mind the gun that had turned on him when he caught John's attention. Through the pain, Watson had to use his broken left hand to steady the pistol.

What was Mycroft doing here in Afghanistan- no, no just here? In a warehouse in London with men who...

“You kidnapped me.” It wasn't a question.

“Yes.” Mycroft kept coming forward, his umbrella making tapping on the floor with every step he took.

Tap, tap, tap.

John couldn't help but flinch slightly at the sound as it melded images in his head and becoming something else altogether. Already he could the hear thescreams faintly. Of course his actions were caught by Mycroft's ever present eye for detail and he stopped briefly to hand his umbrella off to one of the men. “I can see now that it was a mistake. I'm sorry John but you are quite safe here. Put down the gun.”

It was a politely issued order made to sound more like a friendly suggestion but John heard it anyway. He tore his eyes away from the elder Holmes brother to scan the multitude of men who still had guns pointed at him and shook his head. “No. I just want to go. Just let me go.”

Again, those all seeing eyes saw right through him and earned him a sympathetic smile. “Put your weapons down.” Mycroft ordered his men, never once taking his eyes off the shaken war veteran before him. There was a moment’s hesitation but they must have had a drill sergeant much like Watson's because they put their guns away despite their obvious wish not to.

“I must say I'm impressed, you took out some of MI5's greatest with one hand. The battle field lost a great soldier when you were sent back to England, doctor.” Even as he talked Mycroft advanced on him and John pushed himself farther against the wall, ignoring the pain in his leg that threatened to give out from under him at any moment.

“Stop. Look just stay- stay back.” So much of what was happening didn't make sense to his addled mind but he did know not to let anyone close. He just wanted all of them to go away and to be back safe in Baker Street with Sherlock downstairs shooting holes in the walls and dismembered body parts in the fridge. You know, normal stuff.

Despite the desperate plea, the man kept walking forward, one hand out stretched in a non-threatening manner. “Doctor, you’re confused and distressed, both of which are my fault. If you would kindly lower your weapon, I would happily explain myself.”

John shook his head in refusal and press still harder against the wall. “I just want to go. I don't want to talk or hear an explanation, I just want to go. Please.”

The man was so close to him now and every instinct in him was telling to shoot.

'Dammit man, I don't care if you are a doctor. You will fire that weapon!

It seemed his drill sergeant had taken the forefront of his mind. Not surprising considering he was the man that had ingrained all the military instincts he possessed into this his head.

Far too close.

Shoot!

 

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Mycroft's hand clamped down on the barrel of the gun and yanked it out of his hands. The utter despair he felt took the fight right out of him. His leg trembled and he didn't fight it this time as it collapsed underneath him and he slid down the wall to the ground. He was surrounded, alone, defenceless and he hurt. It was just too much. A dry sob was torn from his throat as he tried to curl in on himself though his wounded leg stayed sprawled out in front of him, unwilling to move.

A hand gently rested on his shoulder and jerked away. “Don't touch me!” John cried out and tried to push the offending limb away and cried out again when his broken hand hit it.

“John Watson, you are back in London and I assure you no harm will come to you here. Once you calm down a bit, I will happily see to it that you are taken home.” The words were said in a calm tone and John looked up. It was odd to see a man as powerful as Mycroft Holmes crouching on a dirty warehouse with his features carefully constructed into that of concern. Acting skills obviously ran in the Holmes family. “Before you go though, please allow me to extend my most humble apologies. I did not take your condition into account when I set up this little meeting. If nothing else John, then do believe this; I never meant for you to be so affected and I am terribly sorry. Please know that nothing like this will ever happen again.”

There was a long pause where the two men just stared at each other. John, whilst still quite shaken, had calmed down enough that his breathing was even. The world was no longer flickering between scenes though they both knew well enough that it wouldn't take much to trigger him in such a state. Still, he seemed to be past the homicide stage.

“I'm going to be going now.” John took it as quite a victory that his voice didn't waver and even more so when he managed to stagger to his feet while ignoring the proffered hand held out by Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded and stepped back a respectable distance and gestured to the black car. “Anthea will take you back.”

“No!” John shouted, nearly falling back down as he jerked away. “I've had enough of your rides. I'll walk, thank you.” Without another word, he limped heavily towards the large cargo door and pointedly avoiding the gaze of the men who scattered out of his way as not to alarm him. His leg felt as if someone had taken a hammer to it, his hand throbbed and his shoulder ached but as long as he could drag himself along, there was no way he was getting back into that car. Mycroft at least had the respect or good sense not to force him, no matter how ill advised it was for him to attempt to walk all the way back.

Once the sounds of his limping gait were gone, Mycroft turned and signalled to two of his men. “Follow him; make sure he gets home. And for God's sake make sure you’re not seen.”

The two agents nodded and disappeared into the dark night after the doctor.

 

Every step sent bolts of agony through John’s leg and he had to keep his good hand firmly pressed against the wall to take some of his wait and keep him upright. He had left the warehouse determined to get as much distance between him and those men as he could. John just wanted to get to the green zone and get to safety. If he could just get home but that meant putting one foot in front of the other which proving to be a struggle. His leg hurt so badly that he just wanted to sink to the ground and not move but that wasn't an option. He held himself up using the wall which meant using his painful and stiff shoulder that was protesting every time he put weight on it. Finally, there was his broken hand that he kept cradled to his chest and tried not to jostle too much.

The farther he travelled, the more he directed his focus on his feet heavily pounding forward and less on his surroundings. Walking with no sense of where he was headed or even caring.

Just keep walking, just keep walking, just keep walking.

That was why he was so surprised when Lestrade suddenly appeared in front of him and grabbed him gently by the shoulders.

“-ohn. John.” The doctor blinked at him in surprise. When had he got there? God, he was tired. “John, are you with me?”

Coherent thought was slipping away from him like water slipping through his fingers. Instead of answering, he just continued to blink at him owlishly. Luckily, Lestrade seemed to understand his dilemma and carefully bundled him into the passenger seat of his police car, though when the car had gotten there as well he had no idea. He didn't notice much of the short trip over to the vehicle but he did notice when Lestrade knelt down next to him and took his face in his hands to forcibly turn his head to look at him. “John, try and stay with me okay? Other than your hand and your leg are you injured? Did you hit your head at any point?”

It took a moment but John shook his head. “N-no. I, uh, no just my hand and my leg.” As he talked, he brought his other hand up to grasp the wrist of his broken hand. Unfortunately it jostled his shoulder and he couldn't help the sharp inhalation of breath which caught the Inspector's attention. He was much sharper then Sherlock gave him credit for. “And my shoulder. Where I was shot.”

Lestrade had seen shock enough times to recognize the symptoms when he saw it. He gave the doctor a sympathetic smile and released him. “Alright. I'm going to take you to the hospital, you just sit tight.”

That got through John's haze and he reached out frantically and took hold of the Inspector's sleeve with his good hand. “No! No, I need to go back to Baker Street. I just want to go to Baker Street.”

“John, you're in shock and I'm pretty sure your hand is broken. You need to go to a hospital.” If he’d been thinking clearly, John would have been impressed by the patience Lestrade was displaying. As it was, he only shook his head, weaker this time, and mumble “Baker Street” before his eyes drifted off to the side and he stared sightlessly at the dash, giving himself over totally to the shock.

Lestrade sighed and carefully pried John's fingers from his sleeve, gently putting the hand in John’s lap. He retrieved a shock blanket from his trunk and tucked it around the young man in his passenger seat before closing the door. On the drive to Baker Street, he blasted the heater and sent frequent glances at the other man, a worried frown creasing his features. Just a few streets from the Baker Street flat he was stopped by a red light which while he hated the delay it offered him a chance to call Sherlock.

Luckily, he answered and Lestrade hurried to explain what he knew, which unfortunately wasn't much. Sherlock Holmes already thought nobody knew much in comparison to his own great brain and going to him about something as important as this with no answers was just setting one’s self up for mocking. Predictably, Sherlock didn't disappoint, berating Lestrade over the phone for not being able to tell him exactly what had happened to John based on the scuffs on his shoes and other such nonsense. Finally, he had to snap and told the man to shut up and meet him outside the flat in five minutes and hung up.

Part of him thought he was making a mistake for not taking John to a hospital immediately but the doctor had been adamant, or as adamant as his condition would allow, and Sherlock had agreed that John be brought to him immediately. Here he was, a police inspector, being ordered around by two men several years his junior _and_ both of them civilians. If Gregson ever heard about this, he would ever live it down.

Sherlock was waiting for them out front looking more annoyed then the Inspector had seen in a while, which was saying something. The private consulting detective swooped on the car, opening the passenger door before the car had come to a full stop. He ripped the blanket off John's still prone body and raked his eyes over him. It took many minutes and whatever he saw displeased, if the downward quirk of his mouth was anything to go by.

With a sigh, Lestrade all but shoved Sherlock out of the way and bundled the blanket back around the doctor. “Help me get him upstairs, he needs to stay warm Sherlock. He's in shock.” He chastised as he tucked the blanket back into place.

Sherlock exhaled loudly through his nose and gave Lestrade a look of annoyance. “Fine.” It was as close to a concession as he was going to get. “John.” He said as he knelt to be able to look at his friend's face. “John.” This time it rang with authority and a hint of annoyance. “Come on now, it's time to show the good inspector your brain is still functional.”

Whether it was the tone or just John starting to come back to himself, those blue eyes finally turned from the glove box to his friend. “Sherlock?”

The detective rewarded him with a slight smile. “Good. Do you know where you are?” John's brows furrowed and he turned to look around him, taking great pains to study his surroundings before turning back to Sherlock. “Baker Street?”

Sherlock nodded and stood up, offering a hand to his flat mate. “Come on, upstairs with you before Lestrade tries to smother you with that orange monstrosity.”

John looked perplexed but accepted the hand up though his short cry of pain stopped them short and Sherlock all but pushed him back into the seat. “Tell me your injuries and don't you dare leave anything out, I'll know if you are lying.”

“It's nothing.” He tried to assure the detective who looked distinctly unimpressive by his answer. “My hand is the only thing we can do anything about anyways.” If Sherlock was comforted by that he didn't show it but he did help him to his feet more carefully this time.

 

It took the combined efforts of both the detective and the inspector to get John up the front steps to the flat but standing at the bottom of the seventeen steps to the second floor gave them all pause.

“Sherlock, would you mind running upstairs and getting my cane please? It’s in the downstairs closet.” They knew how much it hurt the man's pride to have to ask for help.

“Wrong.” The detective said, looking as close to uncomfortable as Lestrade had ever seen him. John saw it too.

“What do you mean?” He asked with narrowing eyes.

“Oh come now John, I’m sure even your small mind knows the meaning of the word ‘wrong’.” Sherlock scoffed, though he turned his gaze away from the wounded doctor. “But if you prefer I can run through a list of alternatives; incorrect for example-”

“Sherlock, please.” Lestrade cut him off, knowing the last thing he needed was to be berated and willing him to realise that John was about to keel over at any moment.

The younger man cleared his throat before turning to look at them with that cool, know-it-all gaze. “Well, he no longer needed it so I threw it away.”

John brought his unbroken hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, causing the still attached handcuffs to rattle and clink. Sherlock glared at the metal as if it had personally offended him.

“This is ridiculous.” The detective finally said, pulling off his gloves. Lestrade narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously; he had known the young man long enough to see when he was planning something.

The doctor apparently thought the same because he tensed as well. “Sherlock, what are you-SHERLOCK!” John yelled from his new place slung over Sherlock's shoulder, flailing in a vain attempt to reach the ground.

“John, for God's sake be still.” Sherlock growled and waited for John to resign himself to his fate and still his struggles before he started making his way up the seventeen steps to their flat. As if being carried wasn't bad enough (though it was a surprising display of strength on Sherlock's part) staring at Lestrade's grinning face made him want to sink through the floor. “This is unnecessary, I can walk just fine.” He grumbled in an attempt to regain some illusion of pride.

The DI chuckled and John didn't feel at all guilty for glaring at him though his current situation made it look less than threatening.

“Stop squirming or I’ll drop you.” Sherlock said. “And your leg will barely support you so it is necessary, unless you wanted to sleep at the bottom of the stairs all night?” John knew a losing battle when he saw one and just sighed, letting his eyes fall close and his head falling to rest against Sherlock's back. God, he was tired and with out the steady flow of adrenaline that had kept him going he knew it was only a matter of time until his body shut down completely.

“Don't fall asleep.” Sherlock said, voice a little tense from the strain of carrying John's short but muscular frame. Part of him was touched and surprised that the notoriously lazy Sherlock Holmes as undergoing such a physical strain on his behalf but a much larger part of him thought it served him right since he had not asked nor wanted to be carried up the stairs. He didn't voice either of those opinions though; instead he mumbled an “I'm not.” into the material of Sherlock's coat.

The coat was surprisingly soft and warm.

He just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for days. He'd settle for the sofa considering that he would either have to master another flight of stairs on his own or ask Sherlock to help, and he'd do that the day that hell froze over and Anderson didn't bungle a crime scene. Oh God, his internal snarky voice was starting to sound suspiciously like Sherlock; he wasn't even safe in his own head anymore.

Either John wasn't as far out of shock as he thought or even closer to passing out from exhaustion (he should be able to tell, he was a doctor after all but his head was so fuzzy ) because he wasn't even aware they had reached the second floor, much less crossed the room to the couch until he felt Lestrade's hands on his back gently guiding John's down onto the couch as he slide from Sherlock's shoulder. Despite his earlier words to the contrary, he knew he was starting to shut down, even if he hadn't been aware of it until then.

He couldn't help but gasp of pain that escaped him when Sherlock lifted his legs and positioned them on the couch. Most people would apologize for causing another person pain even if it was unavoidable but not Sherlock. Actually, the sheer Sherlockiness of the non-action made him smile a bit and he very nearly giggled as he thought of what the consulting detective would think of the grammatical massacre he was making in even coming up with that term for his mannerisms. His erratic thought pattern must have shown on his face because Sherlock stared at him in a worried fashion for a moment before running his hands through John's hair and feeling around his head.

“Are you sure you didn't hit your head?” He asked gravely as his hands continued to rove around John's skull.

“M'fine- please, I'm fine.” The doctor said batting Sherlock's hands away with is good one, causing the cuffs to clink and swing a bit. Sherlock did remove his hands from his head but caught John's wrist and stopped his movements.

 

“Those have to come off.” Sherlock said, leaning in closer to examine the cuff and turning John’s arm so he could see it from all angles. “Not standard issue so I’m afraid, Lestrade, that your key is not going to work here. One moment while I get my kit.” Gently, he set the doctors arm back down on the couch and stood up to retrieve his lock picking kit from his bedroom. It took him several moments to find in the mess of his room and he tossed things about haphazardly in his haste to find the little leather tool kit. When he did finally find it (under a woman’s wig and next to the makeup kit he had for his disguises) he held it up triumphantly and all but ran back to the sitting room.

He rolled his eyes at Lestrade but didn’t comment on the fact that the man had once again covered John in the blanket and even went so far to tuck it around him, though it was only for the doctor’s sake since he had dozed off in the few minutes Sherlock had been gone. No doubt an adrenaline crash since that was the only thing that kept John going this long. The only parts of John that were visible were his head and hands, though those only poked out far enough that the cuffs showed from underneath the orange monstrosity.

Pulling out a few of his tools, he went to work on the handcuffs unconcerned that he was displaying lock picking skills to a police inspector. The DI himself huffed and purposely looked away, if only for his own comfort.

“Shut up.” Sherlock growled in annoyance around a few of the lock picks he held between his teeth. “Or better yet, why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch a bowl of water and a towel.”

John’s left wrist had a bruise going all the way around it from where he had struggled against the cuffs and the metal had left its marks by cutting deeply into the flesh. The blood had dried but once he pulled the tight cuff off the right hand, no doubt he would tear open any scabs that had built up and start the bleeding on that wrist anew. He faintly registered Lestrade heading to the kitchen but most of his mind was taken up with working on the cuffs and thinking of the sheer amount of struggling John must have been doing to do so much damage to his wrists in such a short amount of time.

That was the worst part; knowing that most of the damage done to his friend had been self inflicted. Normal John, his John, would struggle to free himself certainly but once he realized that there was no escape from the cuffs, he would mostly leave them be and wait, tugging at them occasionally but not enough to do the damage in front before his eyes. No, this level of carnage meant that John had been behaving abnormally; panicked; which in turn meant that he must have been in an altered mental state. Given that the man was a recently returned soldier and an already diagnosed sufferer of post traumatic stress disorder it would suggest that he had most likely been suffering from a flashback and other symptoms that would send him into an uncharacteristic panic. Such a panic would lead to the fierce but utterly useless struggle that lead to the extensive damage to his wrists and perhaps the shoulder as well.

Once John awoke they were going to need to talk. He knew for a fact John’s psychiatrist had prescribed him anti-depressants to help with his symptoms but the man refused to take them, though he did leave them in medicine cabinet instead of throwing them out. He hoped that the mental relapse John had suffered tonight would not be severe enough to force him back onto the medication but it was a possibility he could not rule out.

Lestrade returned with the water and towel just as the lock clicked open and the cuffs released. The man hissed in sympathy as the scabs tore away as predicted and the bleeding started up again. It was even worse then the other wrist; bruises darker, cuts deeper, and bleeding heavier then even Sherlock had expected. The young man threw his lock picks to the side and snatched the supplies out of the DI’s hand and set to work soaking part of the towel and dabbing at the cuts.

John hissed though he didn’t wake and tried to pull his arm away and into the protective safety of the blanket but Sherlock wasn’t having it. The hand that wasn’t holding the towel grasped his arm and held it in place while he continued to meticulously clean the wound.

“Under John’s bed there is a camouflage bag; it’s his medical kit and should all the supplies we should need.” It wasn’t a request and he didn’t take his eyes off the bruised wrist in his grasp. The bowl of water was already turned pink and the towel was irrevocably stained but this time he didn’t think Mrs. Hudson would scold him for ruining her good cloths. Again, Lestrade disappeared without a word and he was actually grateful to have the other man there, even if it were only to save him running around the flat looking for supplies instead of tending to John like he was now.

No doubt when the doctor awoke he would have something to say about Sherlock snooping around his room and digging under his bed but really he didn’t care. One of the reasons he insisted that John be brought back here instead of the hospital was the fact that he know of the medical kit and had all the equipment they needed with exception to the broken hand. Really he hadn’t thought of how he was going to treat that yet and part of him reluctantly agreed that they may have to go to the hospital to get that fixed. He had no idea of how many bones were broken nor how to fix them, and while John probably did he was out for the count right now and in no shape to be fixing his own hand.

Maybe he could call Sarah…

Lestrade came back into the room carrying the bag under one arm. Instead of handing it over, he knelt down besides the detective and opened it up and started carefully digging through it. “Definitely going to need to put antiseptic on those cuts to keep them from getting infected.” He said, pulling a tube of cream, some bandages, and tape out of the kit.

“Obviously.” Sherlock said in his best ‘why must you state the obvious’ tone as he snatched up the tube. Using the dry corner of the cloth he squeezed some of the cream out and started spreading it liberally onto the wounds since he had no idea how much to use, but more had to be better, right?

Rolling his eyes and sighing, Lestrade snatched the towel from long pale fingers and started wiping some of the cream back off. “If you use that much, the bandages will never stay on and will make a mess of everything.” He nudged Sherlock out of the way who huffed and started to sulk, taking over the job of bandaging himself. At this rate, Sherlock would have John mummified in bandages in an attempt to help.

It was odd to see the sociopath fuss over anyone though it lift his heart a bit. He’d always had high hopes for Sherlock. Though he never dared say it, it seemed that finally the young man was joining the human race.

And it was all thanks to John Watson.

 

By the time they were done, both of John's wrists were bandaged, his broken left hand had been carefully wrapped, and his right arm put in a sling since they didn’t know how badly it was injured. Now that were they sure John wasn't in any imminent danger, their teamwork drew to an abrupt end. Lestrade wanted to get a statement and go after whoever had injured the doctor but Sherlock was being surprisingly quiet on the subject and steadfastly refused to let the DI wake John. The argument escalated until the two men where standing nearly chest to chest though they were whispering fiercely at each other since neither one wanted John to awake to shouting. He didn't need that.

“Sherlock, he was _kidnapped_! I can't let that go!” Lestrade hissed and Sherlock waved his hand in that infuriatingly arrogant manner. “There is nothing you can do; this is far above you're head. Leave it to me; you have my word it will be taken care of.”

“SHERLOCK!”

“SHHH!”

Both men turned in unison to look at John who hadn't stirred once despite that one shouted word. They held still for several moments until they were sure they had not disturbed him. “Well Lestrade, I believe your usefulness has run its course. If you could show yourself out...”

The DI sputtered and gaped. Sherlock ignored him and flopped into his chair, steepling his fingers and ignoring the inspector who continued to stare at him in disbelief. “Have John call me when he wakes up.” He finally said and left the flat, being sure to close the door quietly behind him.

-

Sherlock did not go rushing off the second John was asleep, no matter how much he was itching for action. Besides, it was always better to have a plan when dealing with Mycroft. It was so obvious that it was his brother and he hadn’t been lying when he told Lestrade that it was above his head. _Why_ his brother had decided to do this to John was what really was bothering him. When the DI had first called and told him he had found John injured and in shock wandering down the street, he had his first suspicions as to who had taken his flatmate. One would suspect that the kidnapping was due to their current case but that did not fit. The evidence pointed to the fact that the Lord was embezzling money and there would be no reason to kidnap John, who the man had only seen once and the doctor hadn't said a word the entire time.

No, the area in which John was found was located in the industrial area that the Lord would have no connection with; unlike Mycroft who likes to use warehouses and other isolated areas for his little meetings. That had been his first clue. Then when he had actually seen John; dirty but not dusty enough to point to an entirely abandoned warehouse; no, it was definitely still in use. There were metal shavings in the dirt covering his clothes as well. Of course, seeing the two government agent tails had proven his theory even if there was other supporting evidence. But it was what John had said, or rather not said, that was the most telling. He had been in shock but before he’d fallen asleep, he had been more coherent and not once did he mention who kidnapped him. If it had been a normal kidnapping, he would have told him all the data he could recall but not telling him a word showed that it was personal instead of professional.

Sherlock sat beside John all through the night and took him to the hospital the next day to get his hand put in a cast. He thoroughly grilled him for information, just to know exactly what his brother had done to him and to see how severe the damage was. In short, his brother had a great deal to answer for. When the time had come for him to finally confront Mycroft, it was already past dinner and he had left John asleep on the sofa and Mrs. Hudson sitting in his usual place knitting.

He stepped out of the flat and crossed the street, moving towards the bus stop where a man had been sitting for the last three hours. Sherlock didn't say a word, just standing next to him silently until the black car pulled up. His brother was not in the car which was perhaps a good thing since even the mere thought Mycroft was enough to set his blood to boiling. There was a good chance he would have hurled his brother out of the moving vehicle; impressive girth or not.

They did not go to Mycroft's house or to his office, though that wasn't surprising. The Diogenes Club was peculiar to be sure and he didn't often visit unless he had too. This time though he walked quickly through the halls until he reached the doors of the Strangers Room. He threw the doors open hard enough for them to swing all the way back and slam into the walls before swing closed on their own.

“Always so dramatic, Sherlock.” His brother drawled from his chair by the fireplace.

“John would like to know if there is a murder charge he should be looking forward to.” He said coldly and did not step any farther into the room.

“Oh no, Hammond is very much alive despite the good doctor's best efforts; though if John hadn't strained his shoulder, I doubt that would still be the case.” Mycroft set the cup he had been sipping from down on the table next to him and gave his brother his full attention. “I would not have allowed any legal action to be brought up against him if he had succeeded. He was quite unaware of his actions at the time.”

“I'm sure he will be quite relieved.” He said dryly.

Mycroft stood up (surprising since the man did not like to expend energy unless it was absolutely necessary) and had the good grace to actually look slightly concerned, though Sherlock didn't know why he was bothering pretending with him. “I take it that the doctor is not...well?”

“No, just as you planned I have no doubt, but if you think I will drop this case because of you machinations then you are quite mistaken. And if you ever try and use John against me again-” As he spoke, Sherlock's voice steadily began to rise. His eyes narrowed and while Mycroft knew his brother could be dangerous or even deadly, he had never had it directed at him before despite their ongoing sibling rivalry.

“Do not finish that sentence.” Mycroft warned, tone sharper then normal. He was not angry at the threat but actually worried about the implication. “I did not intend for John to suffer nor to set back his

progress and I sincerely regret having done so.”

Sherlock scoffed loudly. “Did not intend for him to suffer? You had him handcuffed and thrown into a trunk with a bag over his head, fully aware of his condition.” Mycroft shook his head and opened him mouth to speak but his brother cut him off. “You do not get to speak!”

The younger Holmes brother stormed up to him though unfortunately he didn't have the height advantage he was use to. Still, a truly angry Sherlock was something to fear and respect. “He was getting better! His limp was gone and his nightmares, while still present, were occurring with less frequency and severity. John was talking of not needing to see his therapist and then you go and do this!” He threw a hand in the air in annoyance but continued his tirade. “He broke his own hand in four places, Mycroft! Last night, his nightmares returned in full force and I had to lace his tea with Lorazepam to calm him down and get him to go back to sleep.”

While still angry, Mycroft could hear the slight hints of concern and desperation in his brother's voice. He was not use to caring about feelings of others and now the one person he cared about was suffering and he did not know what to do. Mycroft sighed; he had really made a rather large mistake.

 

“Am I permitted to speak now?” He asked after the silence stretched into the span of minutes.

“I'm sure you will no matter what I have to say.” Sherlock shot back, his annoyance quickly replacing the concern from earlier.

Here was the moment he had been dreading. “It was a mistake, Sherlock.”

“You do not _make_ mistakes. And even if it was, how does one going about accidentally kidnapping someone?” His scathing tone did not affect his elder brother in any way; he did not flinch or show any sign that he was bothered though he did retain the same slightly worried look he’d had since the beginning of the conversation.

“As wonderful as it is to hear you say that, I am afraid you are wrong. I am just as human as you are and that means I am prone to mistakes, even if they are rarer then most.” Mycroft let out a weary sigh. “And while I did set up his...visit I had not thought it would lead to results it did. What I did to John was a mistake and I will once again apologize to him when he is feeling a bit more himself.”

“No.” Sherlock had relaxed minimally while his brother spoke but at the last part his shoulders stiffened. “You will stay away from him; accident or not you are not to have any more contact with him. No more kidnappings, no more texts asking after my cases, no more reading his therapists notes, you are not to speak to him without my presence. This is not debatable.”

The elder Holmes did not like to compromise but this was one of those rare moments where he knew not to push. “Alright.” Sherlock nodded his head, surprised at the easy victory but pleased none the less. “And I suppose you are going to Baker Street?”

“And if I am?” His brother's eyes narrowed a bit.

“Oh, it's nothing. I just wished for you to give John my best and my apologies once again.” This time, he got a shorter nod from Sherlock before the younger man whirled around and started walking. He got to the door before Mycroft called out to him one last time. “Sherlock. Keep an eye on your doctor for me, I'm worried about him.”

Sherlock didn't answer but he did close the door quietly behind him.


End file.
